Windwalker - Elaine Cunningham [138]
She whistled for the ghost horse and was rewarded with a crescendo of cantering hoofs. Sharlarra watched in puzzlement as a tall, silver-gray horse, its black mane and tail nearly sweeping the ground, came running toward her.
Realization struck the elf like the effects of too much bad brandy. Her legs gave way, and she sat down hard on the forest floor.
"Moonstone?" she breathed.
The horse's strangely expressive face registered mild exasperation, as if to say, "Who else?" He bobbed his head, inviting her to climb onto his back. The elf scrambled up. Together they cantered off in search of trouble.
Liriel caught sight of a tall, slender drow female ahead, running lightly through the underbrush. She cupped her hands to her mouth and called, "Ysolde!"
The drow turned toward Liriel's voice. "We pursue a priestess of Lolth," she called. "Join us."
With that, she turned and disappeared into the shadows. Liriel heard the unmistakable hiss and crack of a snakehead whip and the ululating cry of the Dark Maiden's warriors as they ran to aid one of their own.
She glanced down at Fyodor, still in bear form. He had taken advantage of her stop to rest, settling down on his haunches and panting like a hound run too long and hard. His muzzle was stained with blood, his thick fur damp and matted.
Deep foreboding filled the drow. She ran her hands over her friend's bear form and found the gashes where drow steel had parted the thick hair-and-hide armor. Berserkers never felt their wounds during battle frenzy, never felt cold or thirst or weariness. The fact that Fyodor needed to rest told her he would soon change back to his own form. Weakened by the frenzy, wounded as he was, he would need healing.
"Go back with the others," she told him. The berserker rose, responding instinctively to a wychlaran's command.
Liriel watched him plod off, noting the weary, limping shuffle. Her heart ached for him, but there was nothing more she could do. She turned and ran along the path Ysolde had taken.
The sounds of a whip led her to the bank of a stream. She skidded to a stop.
Shakti Hunzrin stood over the body of Qiluй's daughter, wielding her whip. A trickle of blood ran down her face from a wound on her scalp, but her mouth was twisted in malicious triumph. Skeletal snakes rose and fell, their bony jaws and blood-soaked fangs diving again and again.
Liriel called the priestess's name. The beating stopped-too late for Ysolde-and malevolent crimson eyes settled on Liriel's face.
The surrounding underbrush parted, and several dark maidens stepped into the clearing. Shakti gave a shriek of frustration and struck the ground with the whip. The pebble-strewn soil parted, and she disappeared into the small chasm. Just as swiftly, the escape tunnel closed, and a thin trickle of Ysolde's blood collected in the fissure.
Two of the priestesses knelt beside Ysolde's battered form. One of them looked to Liriel with hate-filled eyes. With a start, she recognized Dolor, the priestess she had battled in the High Forest.
"I should have killed you then," the priestess said coldly. "First Elkantar, now Ysolde. How much grief must Qiluй bear on your behalf?"
Liriel had nothing to say. Unshed tears burned in her eyes as the drow priestesses shouldered their slain leader and disappeared into the trees. Grief filled her: for Ysolde, the first priestess of Eilistraee she'd ever met, and the first living being to welcome her to the surface world. For Qiluй, who would live on without the joy and comfort to be found in the company of those she loved. More unexpected was grief for a dream that had died before Liriel understood that she harbored it: the dream of finding a place for herself